


Wrong Number

by TariTheNurse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Confusion, Crossroads Demon Crowley (Supernatural), Cussing, Demon Summoning, Devil's Traps (Supernatural), Gen, King of Hell, Magic, Magical Artifacts, Summoning, Swearing, Witchcraft, Witches, Wrong number, bit of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 17:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18124196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TariTheNurse/pseuds/TariTheNurse
Summary: Prompt: “You have found a ritual for summoning the Devil himself…but when you try it out it’s your neighbour that appears. Assuming the ritual has gone wrong, you let them go.” I couldn’t help but think of Crowley from Supernatural when I saw this prompt, so please accept the change to King of Hell rather than the Devil.





	Wrong Number

Checking the list of components one more time to make sure everything is ready you can’t help but feel a shiver of fearful anticipation rummaging around in your guts. The King of Hell. Of all the demons (and other less savoury creatures) you’ve summoned, this is going to be your piece de resistance. It’s not even like you need something from the fucker, not really. You just want to know if the ritual’s for real. Aunt Agatha had a lot of weird stuff, most of which was bogus…or downright dangerous, you recall, scratching at the still angrily-red scar on your arm – it had turned out the pen was mightiest.

 _Back on track!_ The herbs are good to go, virgin’s blood too which had been much easier to procure than the creator of the spell might have imagined. Lighting the candles, you begin reciting the words, letting them roll off and create a meaning beyond the syntactic property to power each action. As the blood drips from your arm into the bowl, the candles flare up –

Everything is dark. No candles, no electricity, just the yellow glow from the streetlights beyond the small living room. Then the power returns, blinding you once more although you do your best to fight it, blinking at the person standing in the middle of the room.  
A pair of fluffy red loafers are warming sock-clad feet. The flowery apron throws off the severity of the black shirt and suit pants…a shirt that happens to have its sleeves rolled up to avoid the bubbles of what looks like dish soap drenching the hands of the stocky man.

”What…” the English accent of your neighbour cuts through your baffled mind, ”on earth….is going on?”

Hastily tossing the nearest pillow over the bowl and wrapping a towel around your arm, you hurry over the middle-aged man who’s slowly turning in his spot to take in the sudden change in surroundings. _Crap! Crapcrapcrap!_

”Mister Crowley!” Your mind’s racing to come up with something – anything. ”Please, sit down again! I’ll get the water for you and then we’ll call someone to help you.”

”Help me?” He certainly looks perplexed.

Guiding him by the arm, you manage to get him onto the couch. ”Yes, don’t you remember? You came to my door, completely outta’t. I thought you were about to croak on me!”

You can hear him settling in a bit as you scurry to the kitchen, find a glass and filling it, and grabbing both an extra towel and your phone. If that’s the lie you’re going with, then you have to do it right. _But why?_ Nothing makes sense. Sure, a spell can backfire or a ritual can be for something else than planned…but for something to fail as monumentally like this, dumping an innocent, old civilian in a witch’s lap? Unheard of! Still, that’s exactly what seems to have happened, and as stunning as the conundrum is you still have to deal with damage control first.

”Alriiight, here you go.”

Passing him the towel for the wet hands first, you can’t help but notice the sharp intelligence in his eyes. You don’t know much about Mr. Crowley, as he tends to keep to himself, except that he lives alone in the only manor in a neighbourhood of terraced houses. Everything about the place seems to be in perfect order, oozing a sense of old money which has the local gang of kids in a twist trying to figure out more.

”Ye’re sayin’ I showed up at ye door?” The disbelief’s palpable.

”Yeah,” you nod, ”all pale and shaking. Scared me shitless too.”

Crowley scowls at the phone on the coffee table. ”I feel fine, no need to ring anyone.”

 _Thank you._ ”Are you sure? Wouldn’t wanna’ve you getting another fit when you’re alone…you know…in case it’s something…”

”I’m sure…” The moment of silence’s enough to establish an awkwardness that seems entirely one-sided and only bothering you. ”It’s prob’ly for the better if I get back.”

At least he lets you walk him the few hundred meters to his place, even goes as far as to open the door with you still by his side, allowing you a glimpse of a richly decorated hallway beyond. Wood panelling, fine tapestry, small crystal chandeliers, and decor that never has been near an IKEA…in fact warehouses were probably a new concept when the items were made.

…

Closing the door behind him, Crowley can’t help but smile to himself at the way the young witch handled the situation. Whomever she had tried to summon, she clearly didn’t expect him, and sure, he’d been pissed of at first, ready to kill her then and there, but…why? _This could be fun._

…

It's been days where you’ve made sure not to try any summonings, focusing instead on cleansing your home until the place reeks of sage. You’ve had charged crystals placed strategically along vectors, drawn and redrawn a variety of sigils and runes…and of course cleansed yourself. _Almost ready._ Magic’s powerful and you’ve had to make sure nothing has somehow influenced what you were (and will be) doing.

But how did it happen? Nothing indicated that the spell was a forgery. Sure, aunt Agatha did get slightly loopy (which explains how _she_ ended up splicing herself when attempting to pass through a wall), which is why you’ve taken the scroll to an expert after it landed Mr. Crowley in your living room. But the conclusion at the occultist was the same as your own.

Glancing at the alarm clock, the red ciphers glow like lava in the shape of 3:42.

“Cain’s cock!” Pushing the duvet aside, you swing your legs out of bed, bending down to rummage for your slippers.

Soon, you’re at your desk, bend over the yellowed parchment to study the beautiful script and tiny illustrations for the millionth time.

…

You manage to wait a few more days before finally giving in and using the first spell since the incident. It’s just a simple incantation to help take care of an injured squirrel, not a full-blown summon…but Crowley still appears. This time there’s no apron, but a gorgeous, grey tie and a glass of whiskey in his hand.

How can you even begin to explain this? It’s pure luck that he apparently is too drunk to even remember your name, let alone that he’s supposed to be somewhere else.

The third time he appears (this time in his pajamas and bathrobe), you’d been conjuring a bit of snow for the neighbourhood kids who were mourning the droopy snowman.

The fourth time, you’re ready for him. A Devil’s Trap is decorating the ceiling, fortified with crystals charged in lay lines. This time he’s dressed up for a proper meeting, but so are you because you want to make a strong impression when confronting him. Oh yes, you’ve done your homework. Delved deep and cashed in favours to learn more about this neighbour of yours. Crowley’s a demon alright, a crossroads’ demon to be exact…but it’s been a while apparently since he’s made a deal with anyone and rumour has it he’s moved up in the hierarchy of Hell. _How far?_ You’re not sure, but it doesn’t matter because he should know enough of his trade to stay away unless called for. _So why does he keep showing the fuck up?!_

Checking yourself in the mirror, you make sure the dress is falling correctly to hide the weapon strapped to your thigh. It’s just a knife, but the seller (the occult specialist who examined the spell) has guaranteed that the runes are identical to those on the Winchester’s demon-killing knife.

Then you begin. Lighting candles and chanting the words you know by heart now after having stared at them so often. Herbs, sulphur, scales, and blood mixes in the bowl and the result’s the same as your first attempt of using the summoning spell. The shadows obscure most of the short man, but the yellow light from the street lamps proves that it’s not just your eyes deceiving you. So does the smell of whiskey.

Moving to the couch and little coffee table, you keep an eye on the figure. “Cup of tea, Mr. Crowley? I’m afraid it’s just Earl Grey, didn’t know what else to get you.”

“Ye always do tea parties in the dark?” he drawls.

“Nope. Lights just went out.”

With a snap he restores it, taking in the room before looking towards where you’re pouring the steaming tea into your aunt’s old cups. A tray of scones is set temptingly in the middle of the cozy arrangement, butter and jam nearby, and it clearly catches his interest just like you’d hoped. Scooting further into your seat in a deep chair, you hope to portray a certain nonchalance as you test the scalding hot tea. _Please, step into the trap._

Crowley gets all of five steps before stopping abruptly. “Bloody hell!” Glancing around, it takes a moment before he spots the trap painted above him. “Bravo, ye found out I’m a demon, gonna let me out?”

“I think we oughtta talk first.”

He’s fuming. Stubby fingers clench the glass so tight you half expect it to splinter, but just as quick as he was at getting worked up, he calms himself. The side of him that, according to rumour, made him a successful crossroads’ demon shows as he braces himself for negotiation.

“Fine!” _Okay…still a bit pissed._ “Ye got me, little witch, what ye want?”

You shouldn’t be surprised that he knows what you are, but it does make you uncomfortable to hear him say it. You feel exposed somehow. Demons rarely harm witches unless provoked…the question remains, of course, what Crowley would consider a provocation considering he’s been going out of his way to turn up randomly. _Why not start with that?_

“Let’s start with something easy…why’d you keep popping in?”

The first answer is an eyeroll. “Ye summoned me.”

“I’w’s making it snow last time.” The cup clinks loudly as you set it down.

“Alright, so I might’ve had fun, making ye think ye were messing things up. Doesn’t mean ye still didn’t summon me the first time…like now.”

 _So, there’s something wrong with the spell or the diabolic hierarchy is fucked up._ Tossing him a scone, you walk over to the small dining table to pick up the scroll. Rex Inferi shouldn’t be that hard to understand, but obviously something has been lost in translation. _Unless…_

“Show me your eyes.”

“Not int’rested in oggling.”

Hoisting the dress up to reach the knife doesn’t go as smoothly as you’d hoped. And when you finally do brandish it, Crowley scoffs at it before returning his focus to the drink he’s nursing. He still hasn’t taken a bit of the scone. In an attempt to regain a sense of control, you flash the knife before him and explain of its properties.

“HA!” His laughter continues and sounds anything but fake. “Ye think _that’s_ gonna scare me? Sweetheart, I _know_ the real deal and that there?” He gestures to the weapon with the almost empty glass. “Not even close. Need Enochian for that, not…whatever that’s supposed to be.”

“In that case you want mind a test-run, do ya?”

“Ye don’t wanna go cuttin’ me.” Crowley keeps a wary eye on the knife regardless of his proclaimed safety.

 _Would be nice to avoid blood on the rug._ “Oh no?”

“Nope.”

“Give me one good reason…” You let the metal reflect the light just enough to serve as a reminder of its presence.

A finger flicks, perhaps out of habit, but the Devil’s Trap works as intended. “Bollocks! _Fine!_ ‘Cause I _am_ the bloody King of Hell, _alright_?!”

The silence lays heavily in the little room after the outburst. Red eyes glow with frustration, until Crowley blinks. _Well, shit._ Old aunt Agatha might have gotten at least a few things right, but how are you going to deal with the King of Hell trapped in your living room?


End file.
